


fireside haikus

by requin_renard



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bromance, Campfires, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Haddock is a Daddock, Literary References & Allusions, One Shot, Platonic Soulmates, Poetry, haddock would absolutely tease him, just guys being dudes, these two bickering is my fave, tintin is a bookworm, yes this is a repost i made some ammends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requin_renard/pseuds/requin_renard
Summary: Holiday plans go awry. Tintin finds himself on watch duty and turns to literary pursuits to pass the time.just a little oneshot outlining their friendship and haddock is in roasting dad mode. [repost]
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	fireside haikus

**Author's Note:**

> this sort of has the same vibes as the picaros & broken ear (south american jungle)  
> also i like to think tintin is Literary, he just gives off big Bookworm Energy. u can bet that boy has probably read war and peace and enjoyed it. also haddock 100% does cringey dad teasing

Tintin yawned.

The fire crackled in front of him, hypnotic in its unyielding pop and flare. The red sparks lit only the tiny circle of ground around it and cast him in an auburn half-light. The night calls of the jungle wildlife chattered and cawed around him, filling the nocturnal air with their presence. He was no stranger to the sounds of the wilderness but it still left him on edge. He could never relax fully in the depths of the foliage, not in the way he could feel at home in any other strange corner of the world. 

There was something about the darkness, the fear of the unknown. Tintin could feel a million tiny eyes watching him from the amongst the leaves. There were no corners on the open sea, the Arabian desert; no where for something nasty to hide. Here, the perimeter of the small clearing they had pitched camp in was the only familiarity they had against mysteries of the towering trees. He repressed a shudder, trying not to imagine all manner of things that could be lying in wait.

He was on watch, arms folded tightly over his chest with the rifle leaning against his leg. A single rifle would, realistically, do little against an ambush of men or beasts, but it was a comforting weight against him. He rearranged himself, fighting off the cramp that was settling down his legs.

“I really must do something about these trousers, Milou,” he said aloud, reaching down to tug at the hem of his plus fours. “I’m so tired of having cold ankles and insect bites all over them. And I think they may have reached the end of their fashionable life. A man who has walked on the moon should be one who keeps up with the times, don’t you think?” he scratched the dog behind the ears. Sleepily, Milou snuffled and turned over onto his side. Tintin smiled.

“Some guard dog, hm? That’s alright – you just sleep through my daft mutterings.”

-

It was supposed to be a holiday, though he also supposed that by this point, they should have realised that a vacation was simply something impossible to them.

  
Two weeks in Buenos Aires, soaking up the rich South American sun and eating as much _asado_ as possible. Tintin was always wary of this corner of the world with his many involvements with Alcazar and the uprisings but things had finally calmed down, so he thought.  
But then, as usual, trouble had followed them, this time in the familiar form of two bumbling Interpol agents who were bungling up an investigation of an international drug cartel rumoured to be operating out of dilapidated temple somewhere in the rainforest.  
Tintin, eager to get involved as usual, had immediately agreed to help them stake out the old ruins. Haddock had made a pantomime of grumbling about it but had agreed to follow Tintin into the jungle almost instantly. Tintin knew deep down the old sailor probably loved the thrill of an escapade as much as he did. Ever since he’d uttered the words, ‘ _Either we’re both saved or we die together_ ’, the pair had seemingly agreed to only ever do things together, or not at all.   
  
Haddock, and Tintin, both knew the day the sailor refused to follow him would be the day a ski lift was installed in hell.

And so here they were: camping in a clearing of the rainforest. According to their intel, Thompson and Thomson assured them the ruins were somewhere in the vicinity. They would camp that night and set off early the next morning to track down the base and ambush before the next transport came in to drive the drugs back into the city. Each of the detectives had taken the first and second watch shifts, and now it was the small hours of the morning. Tintin had not gathered much sleep in the tent, tossing and turning under the canvas. Snippets of stories, his own and others, swirled around in the spaces of his mind, echoing and keeping him from dropping off.

He had always been a literary man. In his short years he had already tackled most of Dickens, Hugo, Conan-Doyle, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky; His childhood companions had been Robinson Crusoe and Jim Hawkins. The words of others had cultivated a great desire in him to get out there and live his own adventure.

“To make a good writer, you gotta be a good _reader_ ,” His editor had said to him through a drag of cigar smoke once. Tintin had nodded politely in agreement. He knew that already; he couldn’t see how anyone could even pick up a pencil and attempt to write if they hadn’t picked up a dozen books first.  
  


All he’d brought with him was a small pocket-sized volume of traditional Japanese haikus. In his luggage, back in the hotel,he had the memoirs of Ernest Shackleton and some mystery novels that he had planned to pour over in the warm sun, but as always, trouble had other plans. He had left the books piled up on the side in his room before they had fled, along with half his suitcase contents, murmuring a silent goodbye and a promise that he would buy them again, in another form, in another life.

In an attempt to stave off tiredness he thumbed through the tiny haiku book again. The words were pleasing. He could smell the fresh scent of snow and cherry blossom, hear the frogs splashing into ponds. The brief captures of poetic wit soothed his jumpiness.

There were some blank pages in the back, clearly left over from printing. He stared at the white squares in his hand for a moment before reaching down into his knapsack at his feet. He dug around, pulling out a mechanical pencil and quickly started to jot down small clusters of words:

 _Whiskey and sea salt  
_ _steadfast as his dear water;  
_ _Friend for the ages_

He scrawled it down for the Captain.  
  
He wrote one for Milou, one for Calculus too. With a self amused grin he pencilled something down about the bumbling policemen being the missing species from Noah’s Ark.

There was a rustle in the leaves behind him. He jerked, head snapping up, the pencil and book falling from his grasp. He clutched at the barrel of the rifle.  
“Easy,” the Captain murmured. “It’s just me, landlubber.”

Tintin sagged with relief and gave the other a tired smile over his shoulder. He glanced blearily at his watch.

“Great snakes, you gave me a fright, Captain,” he whispered. “What are you doing? You’re not relieving me until another hour or so.”

“Oh, I can’t sleep another wink tonight anyway,” Haddock said gruffly. “It’s those detectives. One of them snores louder than a blistering jackhammer. I’m not sure which one.”

“Perhaps Thompson with a P, as in pneumatic drill,” Tintin said wryly.

“P as in ‘please stop being a pain in my backside’,” Haddock muttered. He flopped down on the log next to the boy with grunt. “Besides, I thought you could do with some company. And this;”

He produced a thermos flask from the pocket of his jacket and two tin mugs. He poured something steaming and darkly brown into a mug and handed it to Tintin who smelled it cautiously. Cocoa. He smiled.

“You old life saver,” he said, nudging the older man fondly. “I hope it’s not been, uh,… added to?” he raised his eyebrows in question. Haddock shook his head.

“No, no, not tonight. Cuthbert’s plying me with those damn tablets again. It’s straight, sailors' honour.”

Tintin took a sip. It was warm, rich, bitter. It reminded him of drinking flagons of the stuff in the streets of the Brussel’s Christmas market the previous year. He suddenly felt a longing desire to be back at home, tucked up safe at Moulinsart with a good book and snow outside.  
It was strange, a new feeling. He so often had itchy feet and the desire to be off chasing a story round the globe. Now all of a sudden he felt a deep homesickness. He shifted, looking thoughtfully at the fire.

“Well? Is it good?” Haddock took a glug of his own mug and smacked his lips appreciatively.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Any movement out there?”

“Only the usual, birds and the like,” Tintin sighed, cupping his hands round the mug tighter. “No angry army of gun wielding kingpins. Yet.”

Haddock laughed. They sat on the log, listening to the calling sounds of night animals; the rustle of the gentle wind in the canopies, the methodical crackling of the burning wood.

“I know you were looking forward to a break, Captain,” Tintin said suddenly. Haddock poured some more cocoa from the flask into his mug. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” he replied meditatively. Tintin sighed.

“You know what I mean,” he said indulgently. “I know you wanted this to be nice holiday for us and the Professor. I’m sorry that things… well, we got caught up in things. As per usual.”

“Oh, I know better than to think that I’ll get a break anywhere I go with you,” Haddock replied with a good natured nudge. “You’re a magnet for trouble, Tintin. It seems a piece of it always seems to land right in your lap, nicely labelled with your name.”

The other laughed quietly.

“I know. It never seems to leave me alone,” he tapped his fingers on the mug, making it tinkle softly. “It’s strange, you know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever wanted to be at home.”

Haddock frowned, “Hm? Don’t you like it at Moulinsart?”

“Of course I do," He nodded quickly. "It’s our home, and I love it there. But I’m always daydreaming about my next adventure and eager to be off. Now I’m here, up to my neck in a scrape, and I find myself craving domesticity...” he sighed. “The grass is always greener, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Haddock hummed. “I don’t think we’re the kind who can settle down easily. We’re roaming folk; not suited to staying still for too long.”

Tintin reached over and clinked their mugs together.

“Cheers to that.” he said. Haddock chuckled warmly and necked the rest of his drink. They sat in companionable silence for a moment longer. The amber firelight silhouetted them both in gold. Milou got up and stretched before curling back down in the space between their legs, caramel coloured beside the fire.

Haddock, reaching down to rub the dog’s fur, suddenly made a thoughtful humming noise. Hs gaze travelled forwards.

“What’s that? Over by the fire,” he made to get up and grab it. Tintin, realising it was his book of haikus, sprung up too late. The older man thumbed through the book and squinted, holding it up to the faint light and trying to read. “Haikus, eh?”

“Oh, er, it’s nothing,” Tintin shot defensively. He reached to grab the book from the other who held it tantalisingly away from him with an amused grin. “Just a poetry book.”

“If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind me looking,” teased Haddock. “Have you been writing sordid love poems in here or something?”

“No, don’t be so ridiculous,” Tintin flashed. He was not a particularly emotional person. He didn’t like people knowing exactly what he thought and felt. There was nothing incredibly embarrassing in his words, he supposed, but it still felt invasive. He carried so much of himself in his writing, it felt like baring a part of his soul. Haddock knew how fast their friendship was. They were not the kind of people who talked about things, they simply showed their kinsmanship through gestures. It was an unspoken bond forged in the snow of the Himalayas, the salt of the open sea, the woodlands of the Moulinsart estate.

He watched Haddock read trough the tiny poems and willed him not to flick to the back pages. As if hearing him telepathically, Haddock did just that.

“Hmm, can’t say I’ve ever been a man for poetry. Not enough substance for me...” he paused on the pages at the back. Tintin watched as his eyes scanned the pages where he had scrawled. Then Haddock gave gentle laugh and then a small, breathy noise.

“Is this one … about me?” he asked tentatively. Tintin nodded shifting on the log.

“It was just something to pass the time, you know,” he said quickly and reached to snatch the book from his grasp. “Don’t tease me for it.”

Haddock turned to him with a smile and handed the book back. He looked surprised and a little taken aback.

“No, no, it’s lovely,” he said softly. “I didn’t think you delved into the poetics as well as journalism.”

Tintin, flushed, gave a shrug and shoved the book into his knapsack.

“Just call me Lord Byron.” he said with a hint of chagrin. Haddock grinned, pushing at the stones that lined the campfire with his toe.

“Could...could I have it?” he asked. Tintin blinked, surprised. “Not the book, just the poem, I mean. Or couldn't you write out a copy for me or something? I’ve just never thought anyone would write something so nice about an old soak like me.”

Tintin brought the book back out and onto his lap. He took the Captain’s knife and gently cut the page out, swiftly handing it to the other.

“It’s just a silly little haiku,” he said, but he felt shyly pleased. They shared a small smile. The Captain tucked the poem into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I know.” he said, with weighted understanding, and patted the pocket twice.

Tintin now felt the tiredness wash over him. He was warm and full of cocoa and the crackling of the fire was calming, like white noise. His eyelids were drooping as he rested his chin on his fist. Haddock noticed as his head began to dip.  
“Go on, away with you, ruffian,” he said firmly. He reached around him and took up the rifle, holding it in the crook of his arm. “You look fit to drop.”

“Are you sure?” Tintin half-protested and looked at his watch. He stifled another yawn. “I’ve got another half hour of watch left.” He could already feel the whisper of his sleeping bag, begging him to lie down and succumb to dreamlessness.

“No, clock off early,” Haddock shook his head. “Like I said, I couldn’t sleep another wink with whichever one is snoring away like that. And that’s saying something; I’ve slept through at least three mutinies in my time.”

Tintin gave him a wry, thankful smile and pushed himself up. He scooped up his sleeping dog in his left arm and held out the other to the Captain. The linked wrists, bracing each other’s forearms with a brief squeeze. Not quite a handshake, not as grand as a hug. It was their way of saying _‘I’m pleased you exist’_ without uttering a sound.

“Rest well, lad.”

“Watch well.”

Tintin turned and walked slowly towards to cluster of tents. Behind him he heard the strike of a match as the Captain lit up his pipe.  
Even softer, the sound of paper crinkling against wool as Haddock gently pressed an affectionate hand over his breast pocket and smiled to himself.


End file.
